Chapter 51

"Then, to hide your identity, from this moment on, everyone in Westminster who has seen you and placed bets on you will call you L."

Howard said, "No word about Dragon-Knight Constantine will ever leave this office. They only need to know that Westminster's newest intake agent is called L."

His gaze slid toward a corner of the room—the place where Logistics had their listening devices.

"They bet on me?"

Baron caught the key phrase and thought, Deputy Director really is Deputy Director—he even knows Jack placed a wager.

Howard cleared his throat. "Don't get hung up on the details. What matters now is escaping the enforcers and clearing your name. Any ideas?"

When it came to business, Baron didn't hold back. "If I can't find any leads on Anthony's death, I'll go to Freya. She might be able to help me shake off this false charge."

That day, Freya herself had said Baron wasn't the killer, to say nothing of the fact that Baron had saved her from the mysterious assassin at the end. Even if his predecessor had had some small grievances with her, Baron believed Freya would help him; after all, they bore no grudges, and he had even saved her life.

"Anthony's younger sister—and your former fiancée..." Howard stroked his chin. "If she mediates, maybe the charges can be dropped. The problem is how to get close to her."

Stella said, "Tonight, in Outer London Hyde, the Lancelot and Hesstine families are holding a masquerade for their marriage alliance. The young heir of House Hesstine, Jill Hesstine, will propose to Freya Lancelot during the ball. Deputy Director, you're on the guest list as well."

Howard nodded but didn't answer; instead, he looked at Baron. Baron caught the meaning and pointed to himself. "Me? I'm supposed to walk right into the lion's den and talk to Freya? What's the difference between that and throwing a lamb to the wolves?"

Leaving aside the fact that House Hesstine wanted him dead, such a proposal scene would be crawling with enforcers. If no one recognized him, fine. If someone did, he'd be burned to charcoal.

Besides... a former fiancé showing up at the current fiancé's proposal—how awkward could it get?

Not that Baron had any feelings for Freya.

"According to the timer on Timed Death Sentence, you're already dead. No one knows you've undone it. You can use your identity as a Westminster agent as camouflage."

Stella slid a black card across the table to Baron.

"You're now the mysterious Westminster agent L, not the bloodless scion of House Constantine. Use that to clear your name."

Baron picked up the card. It was pure black, with only a gold-stitched emblem of Westminster People's Bank: an S pierced by a vertical line—also the bank's logo.

As Jack had said over the earpiece, Westminster puts gold above all.

Howard smiled. "A Westminster card accepted at any bank on earth—Morgan in the States, Baumann in Switzerland, Mitsubishi in Japan, China Construction... even rural credit co-ops."

"The credit line is measured in gold. Your temporary black card is Grade-A. You can draw up to a hundred ounces—roughly fifty-thousand dollars."

Fifty-thousand dollars... enough to buy a whole courtyard in the capital these days.

Baron weighed the card, thinking that once this was over he could just swipe it and disappear under a new name.

"Mission funds are for mission expenses only. After each assignment, Logistics will audit the account. Outside missions, the card's balance is frozen. Of course, in emergencies it doubles as your ID, giving you free use of Westminster facilities."

Stella's tone carried a warning; she had sensed his thoughts.

She continued, "Because you've been registered as a probationary agent with a high-authority black card, employee regulations require that, to ensure every agent can carry out missions smoothly, your family will be enrolled in Westminster's protection program once the card is registered."

Family...

Baron recalled the step-sister and cousin mentioned in the journal. Westminster's benefits were generous: they helped clear your name and provided bodyguards for your family.

"Premiums are deducted from the card's balance."

Well... paying was only fair.

"If you're discovered during a mission and escape is impossible, Westminster will unilaterally void the agreement and deny you were ever an agent."

That certainly matched Westminster's reputation. Forget what I just said.

"Next, to keep you from blowing your cover at the ball, we'll make some changes to your appearance and wardrobe."

Stella clapped her hands. The office door opened, and a line of bright-eyed girls in skirt-suits wheeled in clothing racks.

"Stella, I'll leave the rest to you. Our young man needs a stylist." Howard rose and patted Baron on the shoulder. "And Stella just happens to be the best stylist in London."

The Deputy Director left the room.

Before Baron could react, he was surrounded by twittering girls. The concealing trench coat was stripped off; soft arms and snowy hands poked and prodded, and someone tickled his palm.

Stella ignored the commotion. "Even though it's a masquerade, we'll still need to alter your hair color and style... and the clothes must fit the Westminster look..."

Suit after suit—Armani, Zegna, Prada—slid across Baron's shoulders. Hairstyles shifted from American crop to layered fringe to Italian wolf-cut.

In the end, Baron felt like a helpless dress-up doll, ravaged by these gentle sprites.

When the girls finally left, Baron looked like a different man. Jack stepped into the office and jumped, thinking an elf had escaped from the Inside. Only the Dragon-Gall ring clued him in.

"Brother Constantine?" Jack asked uncertainly.

"L. Call him L," Stella said. "From now on, you're partners."

L—this young man—stood in a perfectly tailored black suit that looked prohibitively expensive. His features were sharp, his face pale, his black hair immaculately combed. The Mimic's Chain hung from Dior trousers, and below them Silvano Lattanzi shoes: handmade crocodile leather, only six hundred pairs a year.

A refined, elegant aura rose from him. With his already handsome face, it was no wonder the girls had copped a feel during the fitting.

"Still something off."

The secretary studied him, picked up the phone, and a moment later a girl entered with an exquisite watch. She replaced the Patek on Baron's wrist and nodded approvingly. "Vacheron Constantin suits you better."

She added, "The Crystals of Prying Mystery can change your eye color. Just channel spirit energy and pick one."

Baron nodded; his black eyes shifted to jade.

Her gaze then fell on Jack. Next to Baron, Jack looked like a wet golden retriever.

Stella frowned, phoned again, and another girl entered.

Jack stood expectantly, hoping for a transformation, but the secretary simply handed over two masks and slapped one on each of them.

Ignoring Jack's protests, Stella checked her watch. "We have a little time before the party. Do you know how to ballroom dance?"

Baron shook his head. Raised under the red flag, the only dance he'd ever mastered besides calisthenics was the "restroom moonwalk." Ballroom was way above his social pay grade.

The secretary smiled softly. "You don't? Then I'll teach you."

...

Evening, Outer London Hyde Manor. A cab pulled up and two masked gentlemen in immaculate suits stepped out, backs straight, chins high, as though marching to war.

The cabbie leaned on his horn. "Four pounds. Who's paying?"

"He is," both men answered in unison.

"Co—L, I'm only here because of you!" the tall, blond gentleman protested.

"Grade-D agent, you'll benefit when the mission succeeds. Besides, I heard from Stella you already made a tidy profit betting on me. A little betrayal tax is only fair."

"Fine, you win."

Jack paid the fare and led Baron to the gate with their invitations.

The footman checked the cards, looked Baron and Jack over, then waved Baron through and left Jack standing outside.

Jack demanded to know why.

The footman replied coolly, "Servants use the back door."